


a plague on both your houses (how to curse your acquaintances in a thousand easy steps)

by TheGreatPuzzle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo is So Done, Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Gen, I do not believe in mean-spirited pranks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sneaky Hobbits, mischievous only, wholesome I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24805975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatPuzzle/pseuds/TheGreatPuzzle
Summary: Bilbo wondered for a moment whether his soft old heart would give in at the sight of this increased suffering and woe. More than ever the two princes looked like children, pouting and miserable.Then the wind changed direction slightly and he caught again the briny smell of his bedroll, strapped to his pack, and he realized that his heart was strong yet.In which Hobbits know the correct serving temperature of any dish (including revenge).
Comments: 10
Kudos: 119





	1. Start as You Mean to Go on

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I am new to writing in this fandom but not new to reading in it. I have had a draft of this sitting around for literal years (along with a few others...) but I've been so busy with school and work that I was never able to tidy it up. 
> 
> Until now. (How mysterious). 
> 
> This is marked as "Gen" relationship-wise for now because I'm not actually sure how it might end, though I do have a couple chapters prepped to go up. (My first ever chaptered fic!) But the rating will never change.
> 
> Thanks for dropping by, be safe, wash your hands, make good choices!

Bilbo Baggins was not an idiot, whatever his dwarven companions clearly thought. In all his years - and  _ yes _ , Master Dwarves, they might be much less than your own, but he was a perfectly respectable middling sort of age for a hobbit, actually - he had picked up a trick or two, read some books, gone wandering (if not particularly far). He might not be as old or as well-traveled as some of the company, but he wasn’t a naive fauntling. 

He had tried to explain this a few times,  _ at length _ , but unfortunately had not been taken seriously by the others. There had been patronizing nods from the friendlier dwarves, mostly Balin and Bofur, and the rest had either scoffed or pointedly ignored him. 

He was doing better in the company than he had at the beginning of the journey, but as they approached the Misty Mountains and the weather conditions worsened, he suspected that many of the dwarves were simply waiting for him to give up and return to Rivendell. He couldn’t say it wasn’t a tempting thought, and more than once he had sat on the edge of the group, shivering slightly because of his distance from the fire and his loneliness, and thought about the peaceful and welcoming valley behind them with longing. 

So he understood their hesitancy towards him and tried not to blame them for it over much, even as he himself knew somewhere deep in his heart that he was not going back. He might not be particularly brave or hearty, but he would have serious words for anyone who accused a Baggins of being fairweather in their commitments. He would see this through to the end, even if he couldn’t convince the dwarves of that. 

Their continued doubt about his abilities and loyalty hindered most of his attempts to befriend them. Some, like the mighty Thorin Oakenshield, barely even seemed to register that he was making an effort. Others, mostly the older and calmer dwarves, nodded and smiled when he spoke to them, but offered little or nothing in return before resuming their conversations with their kin (and always in the secret dwarvish language that he could not understand). 

The younger dwarves were more receptive, though it was clear that Kili and Fili thought he was a bit stuffy and silly. Ori was seemingly too meek to join in when Kili and Fili teased him, but he made no objections, and indeed most of the time his eldest brother bundled him off before the others could drag him into their tomfoolery. 

The young princes seemed to find him entertaining. They did not believe in him any more than their fellows did, but rather than responding with distrust and distance, they responded by treating him as they would a particularly slow child. This was not helped by the fact that he was a lone hobbit in a group of dwarves (and Gandalf, when he could be bothered to stick around) and therefore often missed things because of cultural differences. 

It was becoming increasingly clear, however, that though their cultures might be very different, some things were universal. 

“There was a fish in my bedroll again,” Bilbo said bemusedly, taking a seat next to Gandalf on a large fallen log. He paused a moment as he rustled around for his pipe and leaf, unearthing both and settling in for a smoke. “I’m not entirely sure why,” he confessed, glancing at Gandalf’s impassive face. They both sat for a moment and watched the dwarves bustle around the camp, moving this and that thing around, setting up a fire, chatting, laughing. For a moment Bilbo felt desperately and terribly homesick and lonely, and he let the feeling fill him like a breath, spreading to all the empty spaces inside him. 

And then he exhaled it - along with a rather wobbly smoke ring - and ushered it along with the ease of one who has had a lot of recent practice. 

Gandalf blew a couple smoke rings before answering, and though his expression remained neutral, Bilbo thought he spotted a hint of laughter in his eyes. 

“Well my good hobbit, I would imagine it is because someone - and I think we can both guess which someone or some _ ones  _ it might be! - is hoping to get a reaction.” He blew another smoke ring as Bilbo contemplated that. 

“I served them fish at my house though,” he eventually said, mystified and now a bit plaintive. “It was deboned! It was fresh - I had caught it myself! Why would they think a fish would frighten me? I’m a bit annoyed that my bedroll smells of fish now, but I accepted some time ago that it would likely stink forevermore by the time my journey was done.” 

Gandalf’s only reply was a brief twitch of his lips, caught out of the corner of Bilbo’s eye. They sat a while longer, blowing their smoke rings, until it finally seemed that the camp was settled and dinner would be along shortly. 

“I know they’re quite young, and technically princes, and therefore I should try to be kind and understanding, but Gandalf,” Bilbo said, turning to lock eyes with Gandalf beseechingly as he tucked away his pipe, “these pranks are idiotic. I mean frankly they’re unimaginative and dull. I’m not one to cast aspersions on the intelligence of others, but surely between the two of them Kili and Fili must have enough of a mind to at least attempt a  _ living _ creature, right? And yet all I’ve gotten is dead fish after dead fish. It’s shameful! It’s a waste of food!”

At this very Hobbit-ish conclusion, Gandalf finally let out the laugh that had been lurking behind his eyes, and even as he tucked his own pipe away and stood to leave, he replied. 

“Well perhaps you might teach them a thing or two Master Baggins!” 

Bilbo paused in the act of brushing off his trousers, and looked speculatively from Gandalf’s retreating form, to Kili and Fili laughing by the fire, then to the woods that surrounded them. 

Perhaps indeed. 

* * *

It was an old Hobbit prank, one that Bilbo had been victim to and perpetrator of many times himself, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it would be new to the Dwarves. They were not a subtle people, and it required some small amount of discretion and patience to execute well. 

The first night, after a long day of walking through a ceaseless downpour that put all the Company in low spirits, Bilbo started small. He had picked up some little stones along the road, along with a few other things he thought might be useful as he went on, and using the cover of night and his own irrelevance, he was able to surreptitiously gain access to the princes’ packs just after dinner. 

The next day saw little return for his effort beyond perhaps a slight increase in grumbling, but Bilbo, like most Hobbits, knew how to play the long game. That night he casually strolled by the princes’ boots, abandoned by their bedrolls, on his way to make water before bed. A couple quick twitches of his fingers and the second step of the prank was complete. He also took the opportunity while unobserved to mash up some of the plants he had collected over the last few days into a rough paste (while being very careful not to touch any of it himself). 

Sure enough, the next morning brought sweet music to Bilbo’s ears in the form of young Dwarven whining. They complained of rocks and needles in their shoes, and the weight of their packs (Bilbo had managed to slip in a few more stones during the breakfast rush), and the rain, which Bilbo had no control over but for once was delighting in. 

Thorin grew quickly short tempered -  _ as always,  _ Bilbo couldn’t help but think, somewhat uncharitably - and snapped at the boys to stop their carrying on before he left them behind to caterwaul to the Orcs. They stopped immediately, though Bilbo could tell that they were still dreadfully uncomfortable. He carefully hid a smile - not that he had much need to, no one was ever paying him any mind - and tried to ignore the pang of pity that struck his heart at the sight of their downtrodden faces. Perhaps he should let the boys be. In all the ways that mattered he was their elder, and ostensibly should not take so much pleasure from their misery. 

Of course, that night he found another fish in his bed (this one smelling less than fresh) and suddenly it was quite easy to put aside any protests from his conscience. He waited until everyone was snoring around the campfire and then made his way over to the thrice-cursed boots and very carefully applied some of his plant paste to the laces. Bilbo kept an eye on Bombur, who had first watch of the night, but he didn’t stir from his position looking out into the woods around them. Job done, he disposed of the evidence and slipped silently into his own bedroll just outside the reach of the fire. 

He was still cold, still lonely, and his bedroll still reeked of fish, but for a moment his heart was warmed with the embers of petty revenge, and he slept well. 


	2. Nature and Nurture (Go Hand in Hand)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prank was called Yavanna’s Curse by Hobbits because the purpose was to make your fellow think that nature itself had turned against them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Chapter 2! I will try to update this every Friday (I'm already a day late, I know, but it was a Week). My chapters aren't long now and might never be long because I try to end them at natural pauses, but who knows? We will all find out together.

It took a few hours before his latest attempt bore fruit. Normally it would take days for the kinds of plants he used to have a significant effect, but the paste was more potent. The mixture of rash-inducing plants had moved from the laces to the boys’ fingers as they put on their boots, and then they had continued their habit, touching all and sundry and planting the seeds of their own itchy doom. 

It started when Fili noticed that Kili’s cheeks were inflamed under his short beard. 

“Stop itching like that,” Fili said irritably, swatting Kili’s hands away from his face. “You’re tearing up your face and it’s bad enough as it is.” 

Kili glowered at him, slapping at his intruding hands. “Well what have you been doing?” he snapped back, grabbing Fili’s hand and holding it in front of his face, “Biting yourself?” 

Sure enough, Fili’s hands and wrists were inflamed and scratched up, much like - they soon discovered - his ears, Kili’s face, and Kili’s own fingers. 

Once the boys had finished their self-examinations (which required a quick visit to a spot just behind a copse of trees and resulted in poor Kili shamefacedly returning, scratching at his rear) they realized that they both must have touched some itching plant, perhaps the night before near their bedrolls, and spread the itch around. 

The Company had of course halted in the meantime, most of them grateful for the respite after days of riding and walking and sleeping rough. Thorin and Oin looked mildly concerned, but once it was confirmed that it was simply a common - though deeply unpleasant - poison plant rash, all anxiety vanished and was replaced with annoyance and pity respectively. Oin had them wash thoroughly in a nearby pond to clear any residue from their skins, handed them a “cooling paste” (which smelled strongly of mint and chamomile to Bilbo’s nose), and declared the matter dealt with. 

(Did Bilbo take some private joy from knowing that the condition would recur for some days so long as they did not change their boot lacings? Perhaps.) 

While Thorin urged up his “lazy, weak comrades” from their rest, they began cracking jokes about poor Kili and Fili, who already looked horrified at the thought of getting back on a horse for the next several hours. Kili had a look about him like he wasn’t near tears, but only because he considered himself too old for such a thing, and was trying desperately to remember that. 

Bilbo wondered for a moment whether his soft old heart would give in at the sight of this increased suffering and woe. More than ever the two boys looked like children, pouting and miserable. 

Then the wind changed direction slightly and he caught again the briny smell of his bedroll, strapped to his pack, and he realized that his heart was strong yet. 

* * *

The prank was called Yavanna’s Curse by Hobbits because the purpose was to make your fellow think that nature itself had turned against them. No serious harm was ever done, but a series of small, innocent-seeming inconveniences would continue for a few days, until either the victim realized that they were indeed a  _ victim  _ and discovered their irritator, or the irritator ran out of ideas (or forgave their target for whatever slight may have prompted the prank). 

In the Shire, Bilbo had once tormented Lobelia Sackville (before she was a fellow Baggins) for almost two weeks before she noticed and complained to his mother. Belladonna Baggins né Took was a woman of refined social graces, despite her young adventuring years (or as she had always said, because of them). Yet even she was hard pressed not to laugh when Little Lobelia Sackville came toddling up to her door, face orange with splotchy iodine staining, hands covered in tiny bandages from brambles in her gloves, legs akimbo because of the rashy welts on the back of her thighs, and demanding Bilbo’s head on a stick. 

Bilbo had made the requisite apologies, and been shamed by his parents for engaging in such mean-spirited, foolish behaviour. Of course, when they heard what Lobelia and her parents had been saying about the wild mad Baggins’ up in their stuffy hill, suddenly Bilbo was the one hiding his mother’s old dagger and his father’s books on herblore. 

He came by his temper honestly. 

What this meant was that Bilbo, unlike many other Hobbits, would not run out of ideas. And his heart was not so soft as many, particularly as his targets were not already friends or family of his. He was not unreasonable; if they had apologized at any point, or shown contrition, or even made more of an effort to be friendly, he would have stopped at once. But they hadn’t. 

Bilbo rested on his laurels for a couple days, enjoying the repeated appearances of the poison rash, and collecting a few bits and bobs for his next move. When Ori finally suggested (timidly) that the boys wash their personal items as well to remove the last remnants of the plants, thus putting an end to his current fun, he was ready. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me and tune in next week for another episode of "Deep Down Inside We Are All More Petty Than We Want to Admit To."


	3. A Secret Shared is a Burden Halved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo had inherited a heaping dose of stubbornness on both sides, and though poor Bungo Baggins, Yavanna rest his soul, had usually worried over nothing at all, he had been correct when he forewarned that one day Bilbo’s disposition towards mischief would get the better of him. He did not anticipate the _how _of course, but he could be forgiven for his lack of prescience about the specifics.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, presented for your consumption and enjoyment! This one is a bit longer I think than the others have been, and this might indicate a trend (or might not). Regardless, thanks for joining me, and look for another update next Friday!

His father had sometimes despaired over Bilbo’s vengeful streak (it had  _ certainly  _ not come from the Baggins side of the family), especially combined with his cleverness, and bouts of impulsivity. His mother had always nodded sternly, and winked whenever Bungo turned his back. They each had their own tempers, but Belladonna tended to believe more in  _ expressing  _ emotions and Bungo more in  _ repressing  _ them. Bilbo had learned that whenever they actually agreed about a course of action, it was therefore mostly certainly the right one.

In truth, Bilbo’s childhood had been filled with no more petty dramas than the average fauntling; they just tended to run a bit more... _ intensely _ . He liked to think he wasn’t the kind to irrationally hold a grudge and he was right to think it, though most Hobbits would have perhaps held fewer  _ rational  _ grudges than he did as well. Hobbits were generally inclined to whatever created the most social ease, and while that sometimes necessitated teaching someone a lesson (if they engaged in mean-spirited gossip or unfair business practices), overall they were Middle Earth’s leading experts in turning the other cheek. 

But Bilbo had inherited a heaping dose of stubbornness on both sides, and though poor Bungo Baggins, Yavanna rest his soul, had usually worried over nothing at all, he had been correct when he forewarned that one day Bilbo’s disposition towards mischief would get the better of him. He did not anticipate the  _ how  _ of course, but he could be forgiven for his lack of prescience about the specifics. 

(Belladonna Baggins had had a much better guess about the  _ how _ \- but she was, admittedly, a romantic.)

* * *

Hobbits were not natural wearers of shoes, and therefore considered their use and indeed their very existence somewhat mystifying. Of all the cultural differences between Hobbits and Dwarves it certainly wasn’t the most fundamental, but it did inevitably contribute to some of the more significant conversational gaffes at the start. But Bilbo had been among the Dwarves for some time now, and he had picked up a thing or two about how Dwarven dress worked. 

It was what had prompted his tampering with the boys’ laces before - the equivalent back in the Shire would have been dousing a pipe, umbrella, or beloved gardening implement. Anything inevitably used by the victim was a good target. Amongst Dwarves, that meant weapons, jewelry, or clothing. 

Bilbo wasn’t daft enough to try and get at any Dwarf’s weapons or baubles, but clothing was torn, mended, washed, removed, replaced, and overall much more accessible. 

As the Company came upon the mountain range at last, they took one final night of rest in its cold shadow. They had to sort through their supplies, shifting and discarding as needed to ease their passage across the mountain range. 

Bilbo was done sorting through his pack fairly quickly; he might not have packed well in his initial dash from Bag End, but he had taken time in Rivendell to reorganize his things and trade out some less useful items for additional traveling supplies. 

(He’s still not sure what possessed him to stuff his father’s checker set in there - perhaps a wild and brief thought about using the game to befriend the Dwarves - but he was glad to leave it for safekeeping in Rivendell). 

Having finished much more quickly than the others, Bilbo thought it would be a convenient moment to set up the next part of his plot. Most of the Dwarves had clothing laying out to dry alongside the river near where they decamped, taking this last opportunity to wash it before spending who knew how long trying to cross the mountains.

Bilbo was tired of the itchy poison paste, which would be too visible on clothing besides, but he had spotted a nettle-bush the day before when they had paused for a quick rest. Under the guise of looking for some privacy, he had ducked away from the group and very carefully collected some clippings. He had caught himself once or twice, and his fingers stung for it, but nevertheless he was proud of his prize. 

Nettle stings weren’t quite as benign as an itchy rash - they tended to welt, and in rare cases bleed - but they also didn’t have as much long-term potential. They were more easily discovered and removed, often simply by shaking out one’s shirt or whatever they had become caught up in. 

Bilbo was still frustrated with the young Dwarves’ antics -- and admittedly the cold shoulders of their fellows, for which he guiltily acknowledged they were not to blame -- but he didn’t want to cause them any permanent damage or real pain. Honestly, he had thought they would catch on much quicker than this, and he was reevaluating the utility of a Hobbit prank turned on Dwarves. If his goal was to teach them a lesson, but this was an impossible way for them to learn it, wasn’t it just cruelty in the guise of a teaching moment? 

His reticence was what got him in the end really, prompted by the kindness he had picked up at the same knees that taught him mischief in the first place. Belladonna Baggins had loved a good prank, but had loved the foibles and whims of her neighbours even more. Whatever she was accused of being (in hushed tones over cups of tea), no one had ever claimed she didn’t know when to let go of a joke. She always preferred laughing with others to laughing at them.

So there Bilbo stood, stinging nettles held carefully in a handkerchief in one hand, Kili’s shirt in the other, both weighed down by a sudden moral dilemma. 

So distracted was he by this crisis of conscience, he didn’t even hear the unhurried, undisguised footsteps coming up behind him. 

“Ah,” Balin said, peering over Bilbo’s shoulder even as he jumped and attempted to hide the evidence simultaneously. “I had wondered. The boys can be a bit dim, but they’re not usually so plagued with bad luck.” 

Bilbo cringed away from Balin, turning to face him. He briefly considered tucking the nettles away, as if that would somehow conceal what he was planning, but he knew it was too late. 

“I - … I didn’t mean to - … I wouldn’t really -” Bilbo stammered, face burning with heat as he tried to justify himself before Balin’s ancient, patient eyes. 

“I have to say Master Baggins, I am surprised. I didn’t expect it of you,” Balin interrupted. Bilbo cringed even harder, eyes scrunching closed as he was hit with a wave of shame and fear. He hadn’t felt this small since he was a lad, and his Aunt Camellia caught him slicing at a tree with one of his mother’s good silver knives. “I’m not usually one to underestimate folks so badly.” 

Bilbo’s eyes popped open. 

“What?” he croaked, staring as Balin’s wise old face folded and creased into a wide grin. “But I - I was…” He couldn’t figure out how to finish the sentence. 

“Indeed you were - and doing a fine job of it! I haven’t seen the boys this demoralized since young Gimli - Gloin’s son - started sprouting his beard at the ripe old age of ten!” He let out a little hooting chuckle at the memory, fingers coming up to smooth his own elaborate beard. Bilbo’s eyes finally caught the trousers in Balin’s other hand, the Dwarf clearly having stumbled upon him in his quest to finish packing. 

“You aren’t...angry? Or annoyed, that I would - would interfere with the quest this way?” It certainly didn’t seem so, but it couldn’t hurt to check. 

“Oh Master Baggins, this has interfered with the quest much less than many other frivolous things, and none of the rest have prompted so much as a happy thought.” 

“So...you aren’t angry?”

“No.”

“And...you won’t tell Kili and Fili about it?”

“I don’t imagine so, no.”

“What about the others?”

“Ah, well,” Balin paused, head tilting as he thought it over. “It’s not unusual,” he continued slowly, “for...antics of this nature to develop during a long journey. It’s common really, for traveling parties of Dwarves to have little games and the like ongoing.” He shrugged, face perfectly innocent save for the slight quirk of his lips. “It’s practically tradition.” 

“Oh, well,” Bilbo said, nodding as he digested this. “If it’s tradition, then…” 

“Of course, of course,” Balin nodded once, twice decisively, and turned away, placidly picking up his garments and heading back towards the camp. 

“Balin,” Bilbo called at the last moment, unable to let the opportunity pass without one more question answered. 

Balin turned, his stout form framed by the trees behind him, face just visible enough in the dusk for Bilbo to see his eyebrows arching curiously. 

“I really do like Kili and Fili, most of the time, when they aren’t stuffing dead fish in my bedroll every other night. In the Shire, everyone knows how this sort of thing goes - there are no hard feelings over it, after.” He hadn’t actually asked a question, but Balin seemed to understand anyways. 

“It would be a cold day in Mahal’s Halls indeed before you would hear me claim that Kili and Fili are our best and brightest, but they are good Dwarves, if still a bit wet behind the ears. You’re much more likely to earn yourself lifelong admirers when this all comes to light than lifelong enemies, Master Baggins.” 

“Good,” Bilbo said, hand tightening on Kili’s shirt. “Good,” he muttered to himself as he turned away from Balin’s retreating form and got to work. 

It would be a shame to waste the nettles, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have caught up to myself in terms of writing, though not in terms of general plotting. I think I will be able to stay on track with my weekly updates for at least as long as my life is just me sitting alone in my apartment, trying not to die of heat stroke (so, at least to the end of August).
> 
> If you have any comments about things you think are good (or bad!) feel free to leave them below! This is my first real chaptered work and I remain a writer-in-progress.


	4. If You Lie Down with the Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unforeseen side-effect of placing the nettles in the clothes Kili and Fili had left out to dry was that Bilbo now had a _tragically _good sense of how often they bothered to change.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you to everyone who has engaged with this story! It has sparked a lot of joy for me to keep this going, and you all help immensely. Expect another update, as usual, next Friday. 
> 
> I would like to offer a CONTENT WARNING for this specific chapter, which references canonical minor character deaths (though the cause is not canonized, and is therefore my own invention). I have adjusted the tags on the work to reflect this, please let me know if you think I missed any. Sorry to get weirdly heavy in what was meant to be a lighthearted fic about pranks and shenanigans. I promise, I will keep it lighter (almost) all the time in the future.

A few days later they were well into the mountains, less than a day away from crossing to the other side by Balin’s estimate, and they had been some truly _long_ days. 

Hobbits were not made for cold like this. Most winters in the Shire were as soft and easy as all the other seasons: enough snow to build snow sculptures, a few good storms to watch from beside roaring fireplaces, and the usual seasonal celebrations full of hot cider and good cheer. 

The rare difficult winter was born with ill-grace by Hobbits, who were not just frightened, but irritable from having to pretend they weren’t frightened (nobody liked to sound like a harbinger of doom). Bad winters had destroyed food stores, collapsed halls and smials, and snuffed the life out of many Hobbits before their time. One of the worst things a Hobbit could say to or about another was that they wished them a “Fell Winter”, a saying that developed after a particularly long and bad season when Bilbo was younger.

The one responsible, in fact, for taking his own parents. 

It was this that Bilbo thought of as he clung to Myrtle’s neck, as he helped set up and tear down camp, as he chewed tough rations on the fringe of the Company, and as he wrapped himself into his bedroll at night, listening to the groaning of the mountains. The cold days and colder nights, wind screaming at the window, wolves howling in the back garden, and Bilbo sitting in the kitchen with his mother, trying to stay warm as the last embers died in the oven, and his father took far too long fetching firewood from the shed. 

His mother’s grim face had told him more than she did herself, and she didn’t let him go out the back again for a long time. She’d fetched the firewood, and went to the well when the pipes froze, and they’d clung along until just a few weeks before the thaw came (not that they knew that at the time). The cough had started in her chest, slight at first and growing until her entire body was wracked with it, sending her to the ground more than once before he was able to convince her to stay abed. 

The light in her eyes had turned from determined to feverish, her orders slurring in her mouth as she frantically tried to help him prepare for what they both knew was coming. 

Then, one day, he had woken to birdsong, the first heard in months, and a cold stiff hand clenched in his own. 

The spring, usually a season for weddings, had seen more funerals than the previous few years combined. Mourning dress became everyday wear, and the Mayor of Michel Delving had offered compensation to any young hardy folk who could step in and assist the grave diggers. 

Bilbo had had to wait some time before he could take his turn at the graveyard; where status and wealth might have afforded him pride of place, the frozen ground did not, and he had to wait until his father’s body could be pried up to reunite his parents in their final resting place. 

* * *

Finally, his grim reminisces were disturbed by Fili yelping and clawing at his tunic, hands impeded by his thick gloves and equally thick outer cloak. The other dwarves watched on, baffled, as Fili shifted this way and that, seemingly trying to avoid touching any part of his own shirt.

(The unforeseen side-effect of placing the nettles in the clothes Kili and Fili had left out to dry was that Bilbo now had a tragically good sense of how often they bothered to change.)

“What _now,_ Fili?” Thorin shouted impatiently from the front of the group. 

“There’s - ouch - something in my - OUCH - shirt! Like a bee or something!” Fili continued his odd dance, whacking himself in the chest and pulling at his clothing, trying to dislodge whatever it was inside. 

“A _bee_?” Balin asked incredulously, even as his eyes briefly flicked to Bilbo. “We’ve been in the mountains for days laddie, there are no bees up here!” 

“Well it’s something!” Fili shouted indignantly, though Bilbo thought he saw his already wind-burned cheeks flush a bit darker. 

Thorin rolled his eyes, and turned forward again, urging his pony onwards. The rest of the dwarves filed past Fili, some of them glancing at him sympathetically, some just irritated at having to stop on a freezing mountainside. Kili was the only one who paused, raising his eyebrows at Fili in question, before rolling his eyes and continuing when all Fili did was gesture rudely at him. 

There was no regret in Bilbo this time, his satisfaction darker and deeper than it had yet been. 

He had considered making some excuse to get the nettles out after a day or two of rough miserable weather. It had seemed unsporting to add more discomfort to the situation, and besides the boys had let him be for several days. Balin hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even hinted at anything, but Bilbo had seen curiosity and wariness in his gaze when he’d looked at him, as they’d both waited for some kind of reaction. 

He had been on the verge of making up a wild story, or inventing some odd Hobbit custom related to clothing, and had in fact resolved to approach it first thing that very morning as they broke camp, when he was woken from an unsettling dream of ghostly cries and figures obscured in by a shifting white haze by a wet cold hand clamping down suddenly on his mouth. 

Another hand, equally damp and chilly, had grasped at his ankle, and in the fog of moving from asleep to awake he’d panicked, mind flashing to his mother’s cold dead hand in his own, his father’s face, forever frozen in pain, hand stretched towards the door of the shed, mere feet away. 

He’d lashed out, one clenched fist hitting something solid, and as his mind had cleared he’d heard a sudden exhale turn into a chuckle. 

“You’re fiercer than you look, Mister Baggins.” 

The hands had disappeared as he’d opened his eyes and sat up, taking in the way Fili rubbed lightly at his side, and Kili dried his hand on his trousers. 

“What. was. that.” It hadn’t been a question. 

“The old frozen hand trick!” Kili had exclaimed delightedly, completely failing to read Bilbo’s tone. “You stick your hand in some snow or a cold lake, and then when you touch people it scares them because it doesn’t feel real.” 

“I - ,” Bilbo hadn’t even known what to say. His heart had still been pounding in his ears, and his hands had shook as he raised them to push his hair out of his face. For a moment he’d thought he’d heard a wolf howl in the distance, but when he had turned his head it had just been the wind whistling past the edges of the half-tent he had slept under. 

“Bilbo?” Kili’s voice had been tentative, but not apologetic. When Bilbo had glanced at him wearily, he’d seen a Dwarf that was apprehensive, clearly fearing his uncle’s wrath if Bilbo were to make a fuss. Fili, perhaps, had seemed a bit more regretful, but when Bilbo had just shook his head and waved them away, he’d gone silently. 

So, no. As Bilbo clung to his horse, and watched Fili squirm in his saddle ahead of him, he had no regrets. 

* * *

Bilbo was unstrapping his bedroll, needing to remove the waterproof skin he used for his little sleeping structure, when Bofur suddenly appeared beside him. He jumped, and tried to disguise it as a nod hello, but his hands gave him away, fumbling on the straps of his pack. 

“Everything alright there Master Baggins?” Bofur asked gently, reaching over to yank the straps loose. “I overheard the young fools as they were packing up this morning,” he continued when Bilbo remained silent. “Said something about a bit of a joke gone wrong?” 

Bilbo chuckled, though it was not a happy sound. 

“It was nothing, Master Dwarf. Just a childish prank.” He yanked on the straps again though they were already fully loosened, needing something to do with his hands. “Everything is fine.” 

“Right,” Bofur said slowly, nodding. “Right. Well. Never was one much for pranks like that myself. Couldn’t see the joke in ‘em. But not everyone can be as intelligent and discerning as ourselves, now can they?” 

He elbowed Bilbo lightly, throwing him a comically large grin, and though he rolled his eyes, Bilbo felt himself start to smile a little. 

“Of course not,” he responded, finally dropping the pack and turning to face the group, watching them scurry about as they prepared to settle in for the night. 

They stood in companionable silence, the wind and snow having finally died down to just a flurry (though the clouds on the horizon promised worse to come), listening to the grumbling, almost rhythmic activity of the camp. For a moment, Bilbo could have sworn he even heard the echo of distant birdsong. 

“Thank you, Master Bofur,” he murmured quietly. 

“Ah, well, just Bofur will do me fine, Master Baggins. No point in standing on ceremony. We’re barely managing to stand on the ground as it is!” He gave Bilbo another friendly nudge, and made to head back towards his family, nearly done unloading their gear. 

“It’s Bilbo then, Bofur,” he called lightly. “Though I imagine I have better footing than the average Dwarf.” 

Bofur glanced at Bilbo’s wiggling toes and laughed, nodding merrily at him. 

“You likely do, Bilbo.” His eyes flashed over to where Fili was shivering and shaking out his shirt, bickering with Kili about what bee stings felt like, before he looked back at Bilbo. “Must come in handy.” 

And with a wink, he was off across the camp, leaving Bilbo to blink at him in surprise, before a small smirk crept onto his face. 

Perhaps he had finally cracked the secret to befriending Dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been many memes that reference befriending people by being salty together. Hobbits are every one of those memes. Turns out, sometimes Dwarves are too. 
> 
> Also could you tell that it's been about 35 degrees (Celsius) in my apartment all week.


	5. A Knife in the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was clear that, even if Bilbo was too weak and too small to be a proper adventurer, it didn’t matter. Come Fell Winter or high water, he was seeing this through to the end. He had found his courage, and it would not desert him now. 
> 
> His _patience _, on the other hand…__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, Romans, Countrypeople! I apologize for being a day late. It turns out I had a Very Bad Day yesterday and couldn't get this together. But the sun relentlessly falls and rises and so it is a new day, and here we are. With luck, the next chapter will go up on time next Friday. Without luck, well, we can always count on the sun to bring us round again.

The goblin tunnels weren’t worth thinking about.

Bilbo’s memories of the damp, the dark, the gleaming eyes that peered at him, and above all the crushing fear and desperation that had dogged his every moment there - they were tucked away somewhere in the recesses of his mind and there they would _stay,_ thank you very much. Riddles and rings be damned. 

Almost worse than those memories were the ones from mere moments before. He had been so sure that he would be able to stick it out, to prove these Dwarves wrong and journey all the way to the Lonely Mountain but...

But the cold had been inescapable, and though Bofur and Balin had been acting more friendly towards him, the rest had not. When Thorin had shouted at him, as they’d reached the most treacherous part of the mountain pass and he had made just one wrong move, _just one,_ it was the badly placed chestnut that toppled the pile. 

He was right, after all, and saying nothing that Bilbo hadn’t known already: he wasn’t meant for adventures. Thinking otherwise was a delusion, a sad attempt to emulate his fierce, capable mother and his clever, determined father, and it was time he let it go. 

Of course, that was _before_. 

Before escaping, before reuniting with his Company, before realizing that whatever else may sit between them, he really did care about these Dwarves and he wanted to help them see this through. 

Before he _lost his_ _addled mind_ and _charged a warg_ and _threw himself in front of Thorin like the world’s least threatening body-guard!_

Before that somehow worked for long enough to let them all escape. 

Before Thorin _hugged_ him, of all things, and suddenly he was a proper member of the Company. 

_Now_ , well. 

Now it was clear that, even if Bilbo was too weak and too small to be a proper adventurer, it didn’t matter. Come Fell Winter or high water, he was seeing this through to the end. He had found his courage, and it would not desert him now. 

His _patience,_ on the other hand…

* * *

“Did you have to kill a lot of goblins then Mister Baggins, in order to escape?” 

If he had thought Kili was relentless before, he could not have imagined how bad it would get if he actually found him interesting. 

“I can’t recall,” Bilbo said, determinedly keeping his eyes on his hands as he warmed them by the fire. 

“Well, but how could you just forget?” Kili asked reasonably. “It was only yesterday, and you don’t look like you were hit on the head.” 

“I didn’t count,” Bilbo said. It was misleading, but technically true. 

“Wow,” Kili said, awed. He turned to face Fili as he approached, bearing cups of water and naught else. “Mister Baggins killed goblins beyond counting, Fili.”

“Uh-huh,” The noise was skeptical, which was rude, but fair. “Here, take this. We haven’t got anything else and Gandalf said it would be another few hours before we reach,” he waved a full hand dismissively, spilling some of the water, “wherever it is he has us going now.” 

Most of their belongings had been abandoned in the tunnels, including Bilbo’s, but somehow Bombur had hung on to a few small items. No food, but they had some cups, a flint, one fork, and quite a lot of salt in a small container. 

The rest had only salvaged their weapons and whatever had been left in their pockets. It wasn’t an ideal way to rest and recover, starving, cold, and injured, but there wasn’t enough energy left in any of them to continue without pause onto the home of Gandalf’s “friend.” 

Bilbo had been content to warm himself by the fire and let his mind go blank, but Kili seemed to have other plans. 

“So when did you get separated from us Mister Baggins? I think someone said you fell…?” 

“Aye, he did,” it was Nori, appearing like a ghost out of the shadows. “I was certainly surprised to see you again Master Baggins. I didn’t see the fall mind, but once I saw you duck away I was sure you were a goner.” 

“Thanks,” Bilbo replied dryly, but Nori was holding out a cup of water, so he wasn’t too cut up about it. “I thought I was too, honestly.”

“But you killed so many of them!” Kili exclaimed, and it was all Bilbo could do to keep from rolling his eyes. 

Perhaps dealing with oblivious Dwarves was his punishment for lying about how he escaped. He didn’t really know why he had done it, except that for some reason it seemed wise to keep the truth of the ring to himself for the time being. 

He also had no desire to think about the awful, pitiable creature in the cave ever again, let alone try to describe it to people who seemed to have less wit than Yavanna gave a watercress. 

“I think your uncle was looking for you,” Nori said mildly, still lingering just at the edge of the firelight. “He seemed even more irritable than usual.” 

Kili and Fili exchanged grimaces and heaved themselves up, heading to the other side of the group where Thorin did indeed have an even deeper glower on his face than usual. Though, to be fair, he was being poked and prodded by Oin, an experience that was uncomfortable at the best of times. 

“I’ve never doubted their fighting abilities or their resolve, but sometimes you have to wonder if the embers are bright enough to start a fire with those two.”

Bilbo choked on his water. 

“That’s an expression I haven’t heard before,” he eventually replied, waving away the mildly concerned rise of Nori’s elaborately braided brow. “Though if I get your meaning right, I can’t say I disagree with it.” 

“That’s right,” Nori said thoughtfully, “Hobbits aren’t much for smithing or crafting are they?” 

“We can be, but no, most of us are content to buy our tools and the like.” It was unexpected, this amiable chatter from Nori, of all Dwarves, but not unwelcome. “My father actually built Bag End - my home,” he explained when Nori just stared blankly. “He brought in some local lads to help, but the design and much of the work was his own. It was an unusual thing to do, but there’s yet to be a wedding gift in the Shire that surpasses it.” 

Bilbo, of course, had not been born when this happened, but that didn’t stop a hint of pride from creeping into his voice. He may not have helped himself, but it was _his_ frumpy, book-loving father who built that home and it was a lovely one indeed. 

Nori seemed suitably impressed. 

“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” he admittedly freely, not bothering to hide his glance at Bilbo’s...everything. “But then I’ve only recently learned about some of the nuances of Hobbits.” 

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure whether he should be offended and Nori seemed to spot that. He chuckled a bit, and clarified. 

“Your Da wasn’t the only Hobbit with hidden depths, Master Baggins.” He reached into his coat and produced, seemingly from nowhere, a very small blade. “I heard you mention your pocket knife was lost in the tunnels,” he gestured for Bilbo to take the knife. “It won’t do to go around scraping at roots and collecting weeds with that oversized letter opener of yours.” 

Bilbo fumbled as he took the hilt from Nori and narrowly missed nicking his fingers on the razor sharp blade. 

“Well, you know, a lot of plants are edible or good for tea and the like-” he stammered. 

“Oh, stuff it,” Nori said cheerfully. “Like recognizes like Bilbo, and I’ll admit, I didn’t catch on for a bit there, but Dori has always said I have a nose for mischief.” He tapped the aforementioned body part. “Can’t fool me for long.” 

Bilbo studied Nori’s face, which was guileless in a way he now found suspicious.

He narrowed his eyes.

Nori’s smile grew to a genuinely disturbing size. 

_Hmph._

He warily turned his attention to the small knife in his hand, which was, he could now see, marked with a familiar symbol. 

“You stole this from Rivendell!” Bilbo exclaimed, then winced at his own volume. 

But when he looked up, he was quite alone again, Nori having disappeared just as quietly and suddenly as he had materialized. 

“Blasted Dwarves,” Bilbo muttered under his breath, fingering the hilt of the knife thoughtfully before securing it in the waistband of his trousers. “Sneaking around, never letting you finish a thought.” 

But he was smiling as he clambered to his feet, and slipped away to do a little sneaking of his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I spent a weird amount of time debating where Bilbo should put the knife because in my head it was all visions of him accidentally slicing bits off. I finally decided that he would just be lucky no matter where he put it, because some people are not careful and still never get hurt and some people are very careful but cursed by the Gods. 
> 
> I've got the second covered so Bilbo gets the first.


	6. A Mushroom By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo really should have just slipped out while no one was looking, but he hadn’t wanted to cause any concern if his absence was noted. It likely wouldn’t have been before the Misty Mountains incident(s), and it appeared that his reward for proving himself a worthwhile member of the Company was that people actually cared where he disappeared off to now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me another chapter! I sincerely do appreciate every comment and kudos, and they are absolutely the reason I am able to keep at this. This might be shorter than my last few, and if that is disappointing I do apologize. I think of moments and scenes and they become manifest on the page (computer screen) and when they are done, they are done. If all goes well, expect another update next Friday. Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: So obviously I lied about when I would next update. I am a student, my schedule is insane right now, and I haven't had the spoons to come back to this. But I have a very quiet winter break coming up soon - and I hope you will hear form me then. In the meantime, know that every kudos notification I get truly sparks joy. [12/07/20]

Beorn’s house was the stuff of dreams: full of food, safe, had warm places to sleep. 

Admittedly Bilbo’s dreams had changed quite a lot since he left the Shire, but even there he would have considered a set-up like Beorn’s eminently comfortable (excepting the lack of pipeweed, which was understandable but still a bit of a blow). 

He wasn’t as disturbed by the lack of meat as his Dwarven companions, happy enough to gorge himself on honey and biscuits, and while it was a bit off-putting to be referred to as a “bunny,” he was willing to let it slide in the face of abundant clotted cream. 

The Dwarves grumbled about it more than he did in fact, annoyed that Beorn seemed to find them all a bit silly and non-threatening, though he shut them up right quick by pointing out that they themselves had often referred to him as a “halfling,” which, while not outright offensive, was also not a Hobbit’s preferred terminology. 

“You use a term that compares my size to that of a Man, Beorn uses a term that compares my size to one of his absurdly large animals - it’s all much the same to me in the end. A consequence of Hobbits not being very much out in the world I suppose,” Bilbo mused between bites of toast. The table was rather emptier than it had been before he arrived. 

“I’ve dealt with Hobbits a number of times before,” Thorin frowned, “and no one has ever corrected me.” 

“Well they wouldn’t,” Bilbo reasoned. “What’s the point? Hobbits aren’t overly particular about language anyways, but even so what does it matter if a Dwarven merchant uses an inaccurate term? A Hobbit might ask to buy a particular ‘silver spade’ on offer, meaning to distinguish it only by its colour, and though the Dwarf might know it to be made of iron, if it is clear enough what is meant, would they bother to offer a correction?”

“...Probably not.” Thorin admitted, and some of the others at the table nodded. “Still, a spade is not a person. We shall all endeavor to use ‘Hobbit’ from now onwards.” He shot a sharp glare around the table and everyone hastily agreed. 

“That’s very kind of you, I suppose,” Bilbo said, a little bewildered. He was fairly sure he had just said it didn’t matter much, but if it made them happy then they were welcome to call him a Hobbit. 

He would never understand Dwarves. 

* * *

With breakfast finished, Gandalf and Beorn vanished somewhere, and most of the Dwarves having decided to sleep or lounge around the hall for now, Bilbo found it was a most excellent time to do a little exploring. 

Not everyone agreed. 

“We don’t know where the skinchanger has gone,” Thorin said, in a voice so reasonable it made him even more infuriating than normal. “It isn’t safe for you to just go wandering off alone outside.” 

Bilbo gritted his teeth. He really should have just slipped out while no one was looking, but he hadn’t wanted to cause any concern if his absence was noted. It likely wouldn’t have been before the Misty Mountains incident(s), and it appeared that his reward for proving himself a worthwhile member of the Company was that people actually cared where he disappeared off to now. It was terribly inconvenient, even if it did warm him somewhat to know that they had finally accepted him. 

“Nori vanished early this morning,” Bilbo pointed out. “And Dwalin went for a walkabout just ten minutes ago!” 

“Nori and Dwalin are fully capable warriors, who are always armed and ready for trouble.” Thorin looked pointedly at Bilbo’s unadorned belt, his sword having been left somewhere near his sleeping roll. “If you must go, at least take someone else along. Someone capable.” 

“Fine!” Bilbo could sense that he would not be offered a better deal, and he did not want Thorin dictating his watcher. “I’ll take Ori!” 

Ori, who had been doodling absentmindedly in his little book at the table and not at all listening to Bilbo and Thorin’s spat, looked up in alarm. 

“What?” 

Thorin rolled his eyes. 

* * *

He’d had to argue his case a bit, but with Dori glaring from the corner even Thorin was hesitant to say anything negative about Ori’s capabilities, and at last Bilbo was free. 

It was glorious outside Beorn’s home. Almost more than the delicious hot food and the comfortable bed, Bilbo loved the half-wild garden, bursting with life and smelling like a Summer Solstice festival. 

Bilbo headed straight towards the path he had spotted on the way in, which, if he had to guess, led to some sort of pond or stream. The flowers and hedges were grown too high to know for certain (well over the height of a Hobbit), but he had a sense for these sorts of things. Ori tagged along behind him, not complaining but doing a very good job of projecting mild insolence through his silence. 

It was clearly a well-honed skill. 

After a few minutes of determined walking, Bilbo began to hear the slightest noise of moving water, and he let out a triumphant sound just as they turned a corner and spied a stream curving through the land. 

“Did you know this was here?” Ori asked curiously as Bilbo started rolling up his trouser legs. 

“Not exactly,” Bilbo said, “but Hobbits have a sense for this sort of thing.” 

This vague response seemed to prompt more questions than it answered, but Bilbo just waved Ori off with a chuckle. “Some things are near impossible to explain to those who don’t experience it themselves, Master Ori. It would be easier to turn you into a Hobbit than to explain being a Hobbit to a Dwarf.” 

With that Bilbo stepped into the stream, which was colder than he had expected but not unpleasantly so. He was careful to stay close to the edge, wary of losing his footing in the water, though the stream couldn’t have been higher than his knees at its deepest point. 

Now that they were across the mountains, it seemed likely to Bilbo that his knowledge of wild plants and creatures would become more limited. Some things, he was sure, were so common and hardy that they must grow all across Middle Earth, but without consulting a much more well-traveled expert he couldn’t know what. His desire to find a body of water was more hope than expectation. 

While Bilbo inched up and down the river bank, Ori took out his book and started scribbling away again, perched on a nearby boulder. 

“What are you always working away at in there, Master Ori?” Bilbo eventually called out, beginning to think his search would be fruitless. 

“Well, I’m the official chronicler,” Ori answered proudly. “It’s my job to keep a record of the quest, to be added to our histories.” 

“You seem very young for such a job,” Bilbo said absentmindedly, gingerly shifting some plants. “You must be very skilled,” he hurried to add in the offended silence that followed. 

“Yes, well. There aren’t many Dwarf scholars you know, not these days. And those that we do still have said that this was a fool’s errand, so. Here I am.” 

“Hmm…” Bilbo replied, having spotted something promising a few feet ahead. “Well, being a chronicler is a dangerous job. Not everyone would be brave enough to take it on, I suppose.” 

Bilbo wasn’t looking at Ori, and indeed he was barely listening to what he was saying, so caught up was he in his suddenly victorious search, but if he had been paying attention he would have seen a smile, small, shy, but true, creep onto Ori’s face.

“I suppose not,” Ori murmured agreeably, watching Bilbo with ever-so-slightly furrowed brows. “What have you found there?” 

“Ah,” Bilbo stalled. 

“Is that a mushroom?” 

Indeed it was. 

If he was not mistaken, and he rarely was about plants, Bilbo had found a Death Shroom. 

They were named, not for their toxicity, which was barely enough to give a grown Hobbit a stomachache, but for their smell. A Death Shroom looked and smelled like any number of harmless mushrooms until it tipped from maturity into over-ripeness. Then, with the blink of an eye, it went from being utterly unremarkable to being liable to put a Hobbit off of their supper (which was a serious thing indeed). The stench was best compared to rot and decay, but somehow worse. More than one Hobbit had been convinced that some poor beast had met an unfortunate and malodorous end in their garden, only to find a Death Shroom lurking in the damp behind their tool shed. 

The one Bilbo had found was, luckily, not quite at that stage yet. If it had been, Beorn would likely have found it and disposed of it (he couldn’t imagine that even a being such as Beorn would welcome the smell). If he was careful about it, he could shift it into a jar with a bit of soil, and within a few days it would turn. 

He didn’t have any supplies with him - he hadn’t known what he was likely to find - but he was sure that, if asked, one of Beorn’s delightful animal helpers would find him something suitable. 

Now he just had to make sure the mushroom went undisturbed until then. 

“Master Ori, might I ask a small favour?” 

“Yes,” Ori replied hesitantly. 

“Could you not mention this mushroom to the others? Mushrooms are rather special to Hobbits you see, and I would like to take this one with me, but I will have to return with some supplies to properly collect it.” 

None of it was a lie, though it certainly wasn’t the whole truth. Ori seemed to sense this and paused, looking between Bilbo and the mushroom, and then glancing down at his notebook. 

“Alright,” Ori finally said, “but in exchange, you’ll have to tell me the truth at some point. I’ll want an accurate chronicle, Bilbo, and I’m beginning to suspect that I’ve missed a few things.” 

“Oh I’m sure there’s very little you miss Ori,” Bilbo said dryly. “But yes, you have my word that, when the appropriate time comes, I will tell you a bit about my perspective of the quest.” 

“Then it’s a deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes a Death Mushroom is just really smelly. The beauty of language. 
> 
> I hope you are all safe, well, and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: I have not abandoned this! But life actually did get busy again and I started to lose my motivation a bit. I'm going to try to get more of this done and out soon, and I continue to appreciate every single kudos and comment in the meantime - they are excellent motivators!


End file.
